She lifted her head slowly, her piercing eyes sweeping over the robed figures that stood in tense silence.

“You all should leave this place,” Magdalyna said, her voice quiet yet carrying an unmistakable weight. It sounded like a distant echo and was low-pitched.

Without giving them time to question her, she snapped her fingers.

The sound was sharp, almost unnatural.

A heartbeat later, the entire chamber groaned as if in agony, the stone beneath their feet trembling violently. Dust rained from the high, and cracks began to skitter like jagged spiderwebs across the marble floor.

The robed figures exchanged uncertain glances.

None moved.

None spoke.

The air was thick with their confusion.

The black fiend still stood before her—tall, unyielding, its form an obsidian silhouette against the shuddering light of the altar flames.

“What are you doing?” she asked coldly, tilting her head. “Leave… if you don’t want to die.”

The fiend’s glowing eyes burned with grim resolve.

“I would rather die than leave you, my lady,” it rumbled.

A faint, almost fond smile curved her lips, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. She lifted her hand lazily—almost as though swatting away an insect—and an invisible force slammed into the fiend.

In an instant, it was hurled through the chamber’s entrance, vanishing into the night like a shadow torn from its place.

That was all it took to shatter the paralysis. The robed figures bolted, shoving past one another in their desperation. Their panicked footsteps echoed in the chamber, mixing with the groaning, splintering sound of stone surrendering to destruction.

Magdalyna snapped her fingers again.

This time, the quake was far worse. The walls screamed as deep fissures split across their surfaces, gaping cracks widening until fragments of rock began crashing to the ground. Flames flickered and guttered out, plunging sections of the chamber into darkness.

Outside, in the pale moonlight, Morgana saw the black fiend’s broken form crash into the forest, scattering leaves and snapping branches.

Her gaze then rose to the structure before her. She saw the great stone walls split open like old wounds, dust pouring into the night air.

Her breath hitched—then a sharp, stabbing pain tore through her chest, forcing her to clutch at her ribs. She groaned but forced herself to remain standing, her eyes never leaving the crumbling ruin before her.

When she tried to return to the chamber, she found her way blocked by a wall of solid stone. The entire structure was collapsing in on itself, the walls folding inward like a flower closing its petals.

“No!” Morgana screamed, throwing herself against the stone barrier and pounding on it with her fists. “Let me in! Let me get to him!”

But it was too late.

The ritual chamber sealed itself completely, sinking down into the earth as if it had never existed. Where the great stone structure had been, there was now only a smooth patch of ground covered with dead grass.

Morgana fell to her knees in the clearing, staring at the spot where Jaenor had been.

The boy she had sworn to protect, the last male heir of the Arkwright line, was gone. And in his place, one of the most dangerous beings in existence had been set free upon the world.

She had failed.

And the consequences of that failure would be felt far beyond this dark forest.

Behind her, Swefarna was standing in silence and folded her great wings. The dragon’s storm-grey eyes were filled with sorrow as she looked at her rider’s broken form.

Morgana didn’t answer.

She could only kneel there in the dirt, surrounded by the twisted trees of Shademore Gorge, and try to comprehend the magnitude of what had just happened.

The Lordess Apostle was free. And Jaenor was dead.

***

Hours passed, though Morgana had no sense of time.

She remained kneeling in the dirt where the ritual chamber had been, staring at the smooth patch of earth that had swallowed her nephew whole. The twisted trees of Shademore Gorge creaked and whispered around her, but she heard none of it.

The pain in her chest felt like a physical wound, sharp and constant. She had found him—the last living member of her family, her brother’s son—only to lose him again so quickly.

Just a few days ago, she hadn’t even known he existed.

Now he was gone forever, and with him died the last hope of the Arkwright bloodline.

She thought about how little time she had actually spent talking to him. There had been so much to explain, so much family history to share. She had wanted to tell him about his father, about the kind of man her brother had been. She had wanted to show him the old family traditions, teach him to properly control his Origin power, and help him understand his heritage.

Instead, all he had gotten from her were warnings and dangers and a terrible death in a dark ritual chamber.

Swefarna said softly, nudging Morgana’s shoulder with her great silver head, telling her it wasn’t safe to stay here anymore.

Morgana didn’t respond.

She couldn’t take her eyes away from the spot where Jaenor had been. Her hands were clenched so tightly that her nails were cutting into her palms, but she didn’t notice the pain.

The dragon tried again, her voice gentle but urgent.

Still, Morgana didn’t move.

The grief felt like it was drowning her, pulling her down into darkness deeper than any physical pit. She remembered her father, Alsandair, and how proud he had been of his two children. She remembered her brother, young and laughing, before the weight of kingship had settled on his shoulders.

Now they were all gone.

Her father was killed in the final battle against the Daemon armies several years ago. Her brother and sister-in-law, dead defending their infant son.

And now Jaenor himself, drained of life to awaken an ancient evil.

She was the last.

The final member of a bloodline that had once ruled kingdoms and wielded power that could reshape the world. And she had failed in the one task that mattered most—protecting the future of their family.

“I should have been faster,” she whispered, her voice cracking with pain. “I should have gotten there sooner. I should have been stronger.”

Swefarna nudged her again, as if telling her that it wasn’t her fault.

Then she remembered Jaenor’s friends, the three of them who were with Darian.

They were still waiting for her to return, still hoping she would bring Jaenor back safely. She would have to face them and would have to tell them that their friend was dead because she had failed to protect him.

How could she look into Rena’s eyes and explain that the boy who would never come home? How could she tell Baren that his friend was gone forever?

“I don’t know how to tell them,” she said quietly. “They trusted me to keep him safe.”

Then suddenly, a low rumbling sound came from deep beneath the ground. The twisted trees around them began to sway, though there was no wind, and the air grew thick with the scent of decay and old magic.

Reluctantly, Morgana forced herself to stand. Her legs felt weak, and her hands were shaking, but she managed to take one step, then another, toward where Swefarna waited.

She looked back one more time at the place where Jaenor had died. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you.”

Then she climbed onto the dragon’s back, settling into the familiar saddle with movements that felt mechanical and lifeless. Swefarna spread her great wings and launched herself into the dark sky, carrying them away from Shademore Gorge and its terrible secrets.

As they flew through the night, Morgana stared down at the landscape passing below them. The twisted trees and dark mountains gradually gave way to healthier forests and rolling hills, but she took no comfort in leaving the cursed lands behind.

The Lordess Apostle was free now, awakened from centuries of slumber with all her terrible power intact. She would not remain hidden in Shademore Gorge—beings like her craved destruction and chaos.

Soon she would emerge to begin whatever dark plan had required Jaenor’s death to set in motion.

And Morgana would have to find a way to stop her, somehow, even though she had already failed when it mattered most.

The wind whipped through her hair as Swefarna carried her through the darkness, but all Morgana could think about was a young man with kind eyes and untrained power who had deserved so much better than the fate that had claimed him.

Behind them, in the depths of Shademore Gorge, something laughed with a voice like silver bells mixed with screaming. The Lordess Apostle was awake, and the world would soon learn to fear her name once again.

***

The city of Hanompetra stretched out beneath the late afternoon sun, its white stone buildings gleaming like jewels against the rolling green hills.

At the heart of the city rose the Great Silver Spire of the Witch Council, a tower of black marble that reached toward the clouds like a finger pointing at the heavens.

In a small villa near the city center, Darian sat in a peaceful courtyard surrounded by flowering vines and the gentle sound of a stone fountain. He had arrived in Hanompetra only hours ago with Valara and Baren, seeking shelter while they waited for word from Morgana.

The old warrior sat on a wooden bench, methodically sharpening his sword with long, practiced strokes. The familiar motion helped calm his restless mind, though his thoughts kept drifting to his companion, who had flown off into danger on dragonback.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that something terrible had happened.

Morgana should have returned by now, or at least sent word.

The silence gnawed at him like a physical pain.

The sound of steel against whetstone filled the courtyard as he worked, but his mind was elsewhere.

Where was she? Had she found Jaenor in time? Were they both safe, or had they walked into a trap that even Morgana’s power couldn’t overcome?

As these dark thoughts swirled through his mind, Darian suddenly felt a familiar presence behind him. He had traveled with Morgana for fifteen years, and he knew the feeling of her Origin aura as well as he knew his own heartbeat.

He stood and turned around, hope rising in his chest despite his fears.

There she was, standing in the arched doorway that led from the villa into the courtyard.

But the sight of her made his heart sink immediately.

Morgana’s face was pale as death, her clothes were torn and dirty, and her hair hung loose and disheveled around her shoulders. But it was her eyes that told him everything he needed to know—they were filled with a grief so deep it seemed to swallow light itself.

“I couldn’t save the kid,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“I lost him.”

Her legs seemed to give out beneath her, and she collapsed to her knees on the stone floor of the courtyard. The sound of her falling brought tears to Darian’s eyes before she even explained what had happened.

“Morgana!” He rushed to her side, kneeling down and placing his hands on her shoulders. “What happened? Where is Jaenor?”

But she couldn’t speak. The words seemed to stick in her throat, and all she could do was shake her head as tears began to flow down her cheeks.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep